Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  “At least you don’t have a mouth ‘wide enough to swallow an entire man,’” Lady Louisa muttered darkly, scanning the written content beside her name. “No wonder Papa doesn’t think I’ll land a husband without his hand of help. This is beyond insulting.”

  “I’d be happy to devour them all and spit out their bones when I’m done,” Lady Phaedra growled. “All that is said about me is ‘laughter that would scare an alley cat to death.’ What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I believe,” Ophelia murmured, “they mean you have a strong laugh.”

  “Cats screech,” Lady Theodosia offered darkly. “That is no compliment.”

  Lady Phaedra snorted.

  “You are not furious that they refer to you as an ‘ice queen’? ‘Chilly bed partner’? The men ought to be strung from their feet,” Lady Selena hissed.

  “I’ve had time to vent,” Ophelia muttered. “But yes, their words anger me just thinking of them.” She turned to Lady Harriet. “You have been awfully quiet, Harriet. Are you all right?”

  Lady Phaedra peered closer at the book. “Yours is not so bad, Harriet. Apparently you are merely a chatterbox.”

  Ophelia cast her an apologetic glance. No wonder the girl was so quiet. The remark must have cut deeply.

  “Chatterbox? Ridiculous,” Lady Theodosia said. “How can talking be a flaw?”

  “The same way that demure can be an attribute,” Ophelia muttered darkly, recalling Harriet’s attribute. Again she was reminded of how atrocious the list was and how feebleminded the men who had created the content were. She thought back to Avondale standing on his street, looking at her as though he was lost, and Saville announcing that Avondale hadn’t taken part in listing the attributes. But that distinction didn’t matter much—that still did not make his actions right.

  “They aren’t wrong about me,” Harriet said, breaking Ophelia’s train of thought. “I am an incessant chatterbox. I’m also demure.”

  “They have demure listed as your greatest attribute, Harriet. They are bastards.”

  “Perhaps. But there is nothing I can do about it, Theodosia. My fate has been waxed and sealed. I’m wed. There is nothing for me to do but to move on and make the best of my marriage.”

  “They are still dogs,” Lady Theodosia said. “Don’t let them put you down or change who you are. Remember, they are the ones who need changing.”

  “And a good thrashing,” Lady Phaedra growled.

  “I cannot believe they wrote that my flaw and my attribute is my brother,” Lady Selena muttered. “Those wretched men must have had quite the laugh at my expense.”

  “At least your brother blocked any truly terrible comments,” Lady Theodosia said. “Along with my dowry, my asset is my childbearing hips! What does that mean? Are my hips too wide? Or just the right measure? How do men even measure childbearing hips? Who decided the size of my hips is the right size for child-bearing? And, more importantly, how dare they say that is my greatest asset!”

  “Utterly rude,” Lady Louisa agreed.

  “Who gives them the right to decide what our flaws are anyway?” Lady Selena said, voicing Ophelia’s sentiment from the beginning. Emotion flashed across her face. “It’s just the opinion of four men.”

  “I agree,” Lady Phaedra said. “And while the content is deplorable, I’ll say this: they weren’t the ones who attached the list to the book so that everyone could see their remarks and then partake in wagers. I wish to know who did that.”

  “So do I,” Lady Selena muttered.

  Ophelia felt admiration swell as she met the gazes of the women around her. They weren’t going to sit idly by. “Now that you know, do you regret learning the truth?”

  “No,” Lady Phaedra remarked. “Better to know what is said behind our backs than be left in the dark on the matter. But this goes beyond what I can tolerate. These men deserve to be put in their place.”

  “Warrick, Deerhurst, Saville, and Avondale?” Lady Theodosia listed the men.

  Ophelia’s pulse fluttered at the mention of Avondale. She didn’t want the wrath of these women to turn to him. He was hers. No matter what he did.

  Lady Phaedra shook her head, and Ophelia released a shaky breath. “They are the source but not the root.” Lady Phaedra flipped through the pages of the book. “Look at these wagers. There are pages upon pages of them.”

  “Our fathers, brothers, and cousins are all members of White’s. Why didn’t they do anything?” Lady Louisa murmured. “Their response was—is—marrying us off.”

  “I suppose now that we have the book, we can see just who wagered on us,” Lady Selena said. “Retaliate.”

  “What will you do with the book?” Ophelia asked the women and smiled when Lady Phaedra’s sharp gaze shot to her.

  “You are handing the book over to us?” she asked.

  “I promised my father I’d get rid of it.”

  Five sets of eyes widened.

  “Your father knows you stole the betting book?” Lady Harriet said, shocked. She reached for her port and swallowed the entire contents of the glass.

  Ophelia nodded. “I forgot to mention that I had an incident with Hanover, who discovered I stole the book. My father handled him.”

  Lady Phaedra arched a brow. “You are lucky,” she stated and dipped her head to the book. “I will hold on to the book.”

  “Do you have a plan, Phaedra?” Lady Theodosia asked.

  “No, but as Ophelia said, the members of White’s are in an uproar. For now, until we decide what to do, that must be enough.”

  “I have wondered about the repercussions of that blasted list,” Ophelia remarked. “I thought if I stole the book, the problem would disappear along with it. But now, not only has Harriet been forced to marry, Louisa might be forced to as well. It is much more dire than I first thought.”

  “Lord Cromby is on my father’s list of potential husbands,” Lady Louisa confessed with a shudder. “I have been working on an alternative plan. I refuse to marry that wastrel.”

  Ophelia’s eyes whipped to her. “What? Lord Cromby? Dear Lord, that’s horrible!”

  “We won’t let that happen,” Lady Phaedra declared, her eyes flashing. “I vow it.”

  Ophelia poured them each another round of port.

  “Good idea,” Lady Louisa murmured. “Ply us with wine.”

  Lady Harriet held out her glass. “I’m in no hurry to return home.”

  “How is marriage to Leeds?” Lady Theodosia asked. “He at least is reported to be quite the catch.”

  “I suppose,” Lady Harriet murmured, sipping on the port Ophelia had poured. “If you are into men such as him. The man is beyond bossy. Throws his weight around like a king. And I’ve not once heard him lift his voice.”

  Ophelia frowned. “You can stay with me for a few days if you wish.”

  Harriet’s startled eyes flew to her. “I—thank you for the offer.” She saluted Ophelia with her glass. “However, my husband would never allow that.”

  “Well, I’m sure we can come up with a suitable excuse. Take me up on my offer anytime.” Ophelia offered her a smile.

  “I shall not stand for this,” Lady Theodosia said, her head held high as her gaze swept over them one by one. “I will not let them get away with this.”

  “But what can we do?” Lady Louisa asked. “We hold no power over those men.”

  “We have the betting book of White’s,” Lady Phaedra pointed out. “Whatever good that does us.”

  “We can always ransom it back?” Lady Louisa suggested.

  Lady Selena snorted. “For what? Their limbs?”

  Ophelia bit back a smile.

  “This is much bigger than that,” Lady Selena continued. “Too much has happened as a result of the wagers. It is not enough to hold their precious book for ransom; we need to show those bastards we are not to be ridiculed or taken for granted. We must stand together from this day.”

  “You are right. Something more must be done,” L
ady Louisa said.

  “I agree,” Lady Theodosia said. “It will take a great act of courage—defiance—to show them we are tired of being treated like cattle.”

  Ophelia nodded in agreement. “It will be quite brave indeed.”

  “So what do we do?” Lady Harriet asked.

  Holding her breath, Ophelia turned to Lady Phaedra and said, “We rise up.”

  Chapter 21

  The look of pure horror on Ophelia’s ashen face haunted Harry.

  The anguish in her eyes, her features, would forever be burned into his skull. He paced the length of his study, battling his growing fear, and considered how to best approach her. He’d been calling on her for the past two days. And for two days she had refused to see him.

  Each time, Rochester had received him in her stead.

  The man took every opportunity to lay into Harry, who took each blow in a bloody stride. Giving up was not an option. He was determined not to incur another significant loss in his life, determined to win Ophelia back. Rochester could damn well come to terms with that.

  If only Ophelia would come to battle him. Her wrath would be better than this quiet spell, which was so unlike her to hide in a burrow.

  He wanted her out. He wanted her to snap and growl at him, not Rochester—who, now that Harry thought about the man, was aptly nicknamed her watchdog.

  Damnation!

  He should never have let her leave without explaining himself. But Harry had always been good at reading people—apparently with the exception of his father and mother—and he knew Ophelia’s ears had been firmly shut at that moment.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from when he had been caught in the rain after another failed visit to Ophelia, and combed back the strands that had fallen across his brow.

  His mother entered the study, and Harry sighed, shutting his eyes.

  “Harry, dear, we must talk.”

  “Not now, mother.”

  “You have been avoiding me since your return from The Crown.”

  “Some things are better left unsaid,” Harry offered. “A point of fact usually only realized right after they are said.”

  “You cannot be angry at me forever, dear. Your father and I only had your best interest at heart.”

  “My best interest,” Harry said, his eyes opening to fall on his mother, “is to not keep me in the dark.”

  “I realize that now, dear. I handled the entire affair wrong. But please know I did so out of love.”

  Harry muttered an oaf.

  He could not stay angry at his mother. These past two days, he had nothing but time to think. What was done was done. Harry could rant. Plant his fists into walls. But that would not change the facts. That would not bring his father back. Harry still had his mother, regardless of her flawed logic. They had to look after one another. For better or worse, they were family.

  “Promise you will never keep anything from me again.”

  “I promise.”

  Harry nodded.

  “Jones informs me you have been calling on Lady Ophelia three times a day, returning each time with your mood blacker than the inside of a pistol.”

  “Jones should keep his mouth shut,” Harry growled.

  “I see he was not exaggerating. I talked to Warrick. He brought me up to speed on your situation.”

  “My situ—” Harry balled his fists. “Damn Warrick. That bastard is a pain in my ass.”

  “Do not be mad at Warrick, Avondale. Saville and Deerhurst were as tight-lipped as clay ornaments. Warrick took pity on a concerned mother.”

  “Well, then, you are apprised about my life.”

  “Not quite. I don’t know what you intend to do about Lady Ophelia.”

  Harry rubbed his temples, an ache forming there.

  “I hear Lady Ophelia will be attending the Stewart Ball,” his mother continued. When Harry remained obstinately silent, she ventured on. “Has it ever occurred to you that Lady Ophelia might not care about your finances?”

  “Her refusal to see me says otherwise, as does the gossip surrounding her. Everyone knows she loathes fortune hunters. She’s told me so herself. She believes I am one of them.” Harry sighed. “Besides, you did not see her reaction—I did.”

  “Her reaction to what exactly, dear?” his mother asked, sauntering over to the desk to settle into a chair.

  “Upon believing I am after her fortune . . . as well as my involvement with the list. I assume Warrick told you about that?”

  The countess nodded.

  Harry swallowed. “She said she never wanted to see me again.”

  “Did you apologize?”

  “I told her I loved her. Still, she won’t see me. It seems I must adjust my expectations and give her more time.” Harry scowled. If only Ophelia would allow him to explain. At least then, if she still refused to see him, Harry would know he had done and said everything in his power to win her back.

  “Did you send her flowers?”

  “Left them with her maid,” Harry replied. “As I said, she won’t see me.”

  “Can you not sneak into her room?” the countess asked. “Sing at the top of your voice beneath her window?”

  “This is Mayfair, Mother, not Seven Dials. I wish to win her back, not scare her off entirely.”

  “Well, then, that explains why she won’t receive your calls. I raised the most tedious son in the world.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Harry demanded. “I am not tedious.”

  “You know, dear, back in the day, men were much more romantic.”

  “I find that hard to believe. And sneaking into a woman’s bedchamber is not romantic.”

  The countess smiled. “That depends on the man.”

  Harry cursed. The devil was surely sitting upon his mother’s shoulder. Her next words proved it.

  “Let me give you some advice, dear because it appears you are in dire need of direction: ruin the girl.”

  Already done.

  “For the sake of clarity, what do you mean by ruin the girl? Because that is exactly what Ophelia doesn’t want.”

  “In your particular case, dear, nothing says ‘I want to spend the rest of my life doting at your side’ like ruining the woman of your dreams.”

  “I doubt Ophelia shares your sentiment.”

  “After she discovered the truth, did you set after her in pursuit when she left?”

  Harry grimaced.

  “You didn’t run after the woman, dear. You always run after the woman. Now you must make up for the blunder.”

  His mother made an excellent point, dammit. He hadn’t set after Ophelia, hadn’t swept her off her feet in a particular grand fashion. Instead, he had let her believe the worst of him. She had asked him to marry her, and he hadn’t responded. He was a bloody fool.

  He patted the pocket in which the ring was nestled. He would attend the Stewart Ball tonight. And he would leave there only one way: with Ophelia on his arm. Because Harry refused to spend another moment without her at his side.

  A knock sounded on her door.

  The sixth one that day.

  Her mother was relentless.

  Two days had passed since Ophelia had handed the book over to Lady Phaedra and washed her hands of the cursed object. And since that moment, Ophelia had yet to leave her chamber. She had yet to get out of bed, too, for that matter.

  Her mother was constantly hovering outside her chamber. Avondale had been calling on her three times a day for the past two days, and Rochester had been staying in the guest chamber. She had heard Nash’s voice once or twice. Leonora had been there too.

  But Ophelia had refused to see them all.

  The knock started again.

  “Ophelia,” Rochester’s voice came through the door. Not her mother, then. “We’re coming in.”

  Ophelia shot straight up in bed. “Don’t you dare!” she shouted, scrambling to gather the sheets around her.

  So far, no one had dared cross the threshold of her
chamber. It seemed her days of brooding had come to an end. Rochester and Nash slipped into the room, Rochester raising a brow when his gaze fell on her. “Dear Lord, have you aged fifteen years?”

  Ophelia glared at him. “Get out, both of you.”

  “He is right, Ophelia,” Nash said with a lift of his shoulders, sauntering over to place a box beside her on the bed. “You look tired.”

  “What is that?” Ophelia asked begrudgingly, ignoring their comments on her appearance. She was in no mood for company. And in even less of a mood to be grateful for gifts.

  “Your gown for the Stewart Ball,” Rochester answered, sinking down on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m not attending the Stewart Ball,” Ophelia said, pushing the box aside.

  “Of course you are,” Nash said. “Your mother already confirmed your attendance. You are just scared to face Avondale.”

  “Do not utter his name in my presence.”

  “Yes, don’t mention that bastard’s name,” Rochester agreed.

  Nash shot Rochester an aggrieved look. “Do not encourage her.”

  “Ophelia can make her own choices,” Rochester said with a shrug.

  “Agreed,” Ophelia said.

  “You love him, Ophelia,” Nash said softly. “Since when is love something to give up on?”

  Ophelia shut her eyes. This is why she had refused all callers, otherwise known as the voices of reason. Ophelia’s heart still shied away from logic, instead preferring a good old-fashioned sulk. Nash’s words struck her straight in the center, however. Ophelia had never been one to huddle in a corner. She never walked away from a fight.

  Still, valid reasons kept her rooted. “His list . . .”

  “Rochester tells me his mother compiled the names and his friends expanded upon it.”

  “Yes, well he might not have participated, but he also didn’t stop his friends.”

  “No,” Nash agreed. “But he also could have ruined you and secured your hand at any time. He didn’t.”